


The Order's Ordeal

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Consent Issues, M/M, Sticky Sex, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:29:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For kink meme prompt here:  http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/3587.html?thread=6312451</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Order's Ordeal

**Author's Note:**

> Knights Templar (who supply a LOT of my Circle of Light headcanon) often used ritual punishments, including floggings, by the Order's Master to punish infractions.
> 
> You may find Dai Atlas a little...icky in this, in the way he abuses the mentor/subordinate relationship. I know. I'm sorry. I couldn't get it to work any other way. If that squicks you, please give this one a pass.
> 
> I marked it as noncon, even though it's rather more dubcon, just to be on a safe side. Again, erring on the side of caution.

Dai Atlas sighed, watching Wing calmly nod, pull his swords from their sheaths, and lay them on the table between them.

“I understand,” Wing said. “And as ever, I shall take my punishment.” His mouth was set, ready.

“How many times?” Dai Atlas said, frowning. “How many times until you learn?”

“I have learned,” Wing said, his voice gentle. “I follow our laws. I take my punishment.”

“But you still transgress.”

“Yes.” The white wingpanels rustled, susurrus and nervous. “I need to fly.” A note of pleading in his voice, not for mercy—he’d never dare—but for understanding.

And Dai Atlas did understand. He knew about Altihex, that Wing had been trapped for days in the rubble, pinned, immobile. But there was no excuse. They had rules, and the rules existed for a reason. “The City’s safety is more important, Wing,” he said, severely, splaying one hand on the console between them. “It outweighs any one mech’s needs.”

“Which is why I take my punishment,” Wing said. A small cinder of defiance flickered in the gold optics. “I saved a life, Dai Atlas.”

“You saved a Decepticon,” he said, severely. “And risked the exposure of the whole city.”

Wing faltered. “But it’s who we are. We save our kind.”

“We don’t risk our kind to do it.” Dai Atlas felt his brow furrow under his helm. Wing was…stubborn on this point, always. He was an intelligent mech in all other respects, but he seemed almost…childishly obstinate about this. One mech was the same as the whole world to him. And sometimes Dai Atlas wondered what might have happened in the ruins of Altihex to do that.

“I will take my penalty,” Wing said, his lower lip jutting, almost like a pout, as displeased by this circular argument in his own way as Dai Atlas.

“Fine,” Dai Atlas said, flatly. “Tonight,” he added, after a moment, checking his schedule. Yes, he was free.

“Tonight,” Wing echoed. He was ready now. The difference was, Dai Atlas wasn’t.

“Tonight.” I’ll oversee this myself. Maybe this time…Wing will learn.

[***]

Wing showed up on time, having spent the rest of the day shamefully stripped of weapons. His wings were high and taut when Dai Atlas arrived, ready, the larger jet thought, to get this over with. He understood—so long with the weight of a Great Sword between one’s shoulders that its sudden absence threw balance off in a myriad subtle ways, not all of them physical.

So was Dai Atlas. He coded the door open, the metal doors whisking somehow heavily aside. Lights flicked on as they entered, throwing light in front of their hushed footsteps. There was a strange reverence about this, a ritual, as much as a punishment. And Wing…remembered where to go, crossing to the metal grate with a tight grace. He turned, patiently, wrists in front of him, the small blade-like stabilizers pointing back at him. “I am ready,” Wing said. In the large, hushed room, even Wing’s quiet voice seemed swallowed, sucked of its usual timbre.

“Recite the Creed,” Dai Atlas said, turning to the cabinet as Wing began, the words flowing from the vocalizer in Wing’s steady, measured tenor. It had been a long time since Dai Atlas had done this himself, one of those tasks he’d always delegated away. Which, he realized now, as the ritual itself seemed to scroll out only rustily to his cortex, was a mistake. He had hidden too long from his responsibilities, or at least the less pleasant ones.

When he turned back, the binding ropes in his hands, Wing was finishing the Creed, bowing his head formally. The light glossed over the red band on his helm, as he raised his head again, arms coming together, stretching them out, wrists together. He knew the procedure better than Dai Atlas. All the more reason, Dai Atlas thought, that this needed to be revisited.

His hands remembered enough, though, looping the green cord around the wrists, weaving between them, testing the tension by sliding one finger between the cord and the slender wrists. “Green?” Wing asked, quietly.

“Yes.” Dai Atlas paused in the wrapping, catching the gold optic with his own. “This is becoming willfulness on your part, Wing.”

An inward pull of the mouthplates, and the spires above his shoulders twitched. “Yes.” Surrender, or at least acknowledgment, Wing’s strange non-aggressive defiance. Dai Atlas finished wrapping the ends of the cord in a small loop. Wing took a step back, to the kneeling dais. Dai Atlas shook his head, beckoning him forward, reaching up to pull one of the tension hooks from the ceiling to hook into the loop in the green binding. A first flicker of something like concern in the gold optics. Good, Dai Atlas thought. Maybe this will get through to him.

He turned back, stepping behind the smaller jet with another length of cord.

“Necessary?” Wing asked, helm half turning over one shoulder.

“Yes.” Binding an airframe Knight’s wings was symbolic only—Wing’s honor alone would be enough to keep him from flying away. But it was the symbolism Dai Atlas was after, so he bent to the task, crisscrossing the green cording over the white armor, putting enough tension on the wings to stress the struts. He could hear Wing’s vents grow sharper, shallower, before the smaller jet forcibly regulated ventilation in one long, shuddering exhale, as though trying to vent his discomfort.

Do not relent, Dai Atlas told himself. Wing has endangered everything we have worked for. He understood the jet’s impulses, but that’s just what they were: impulses. Civilization was nothing if one allowed impulse to trump the good of the many. “Down,” he ordered reaching up to unhook the wrists, pitching his voice harshly, trying to scour away his own impulse to mercy in its resounding echoes.

Wing moved clumsily to his knees, his two main balance compensators bound and useless. Dai Atlas frowned, resisting his urge to steady the jet, busying himself by pulling the electrowhip from the cabinet. Wing would learn obedience.

The first strike seemed to take Wing by surprise: he cried out, arching up, bound hands helpless to do anything other than twist together as the hot lash of current blazed over the bound wings. He struck again, shoulder servos whipping the blue lash as it sang through the air, striking lower down. Wing rocked forward, catching himself on his palms. A third lash, and Wing shuddered, anticipating, dreading the fall of the fourth.

Dai Atlas paused, shaking himself. Violence. It was abhorrent to their kind. It should only be doled out like this—if ever—in controlled, monitored doses, like a medicine, a corrective, a lesson.

He could see the scores of his three lashes marring the white finish, one cutting through the white enamel to the bare metal beneath. “Why?” he barked. “Explain why you endanger us.”

“We have everything, here,” Wing gasped, staring at the floor, to collect himself. “And others, nothing. Less than nothing. It’s…selfish to hoard what we have when we could be helping.” He turned his face upward, optics gold and earnest.

“Selfish,” Dai Atlas snapped. And he couldn’t help himself: all the repressed anger he’d been holding inside, distress at Wing’s continued infractions, the danger the city was in, it all burst forth, and Dai Atlas struck out—seeing his hand move as though it were someone else’s—the large dark back striking Wing across the face, throwing him backward.

Dai Atlas stepped closer, shaking with fury. “What gives you the right, Wing?” He stood over where the white jet had sprawled, helpless, on his back, his knee stabilizers tangled together. “What gives you the right to decide to endanger all of us? It’s not just you you’re risking. It’s everyone here, everything we’ve worked for!” He dropped to one knee, letting his weight land hard over Wing’s thighs, the electrowhip reared back in a hard fist, ready to strike. “How do you dare?”

“Dai Atlas—,” Wing began, stopped. A trickle of energon ran from the corner of his mouth, his optics lambent with shock more than pain. Dai Atlas froze, watching the purple-pink droplet trail down the cheek, well against the buccal armor. His hands wormed helplessly, pinned by the large jet’s body between them.  
Dai Atlas felt his own frame flinch, repelled by the violence that coursed through his lines. He had left this behind, all of this…hadn’t he?

He pushed roughly to his feet, flattening his hands from the fists they’d curled into. “This,” he said, hotly, “is what comes of your recklessness, Wing.”

“I have to do what is right!” Wing said, but he sounded unsure, at last. “I…have to.” He tried to shake his head, to flick off the bubbling of energon from his split mouthplate. “And you must do what you feel is right. I understand.”

“Wing.” Dai Atlas squeezed his optic shutters for a long moment, before turning back. “Wing.” Pleading not for understanding but comprehension. Stop doing this. He jerked a rag from his storage, dropping back to one knee, swabbing at the energon. “Please. This has to be the last time.” His words, the tremble of his hand on Wing’s cheek, were almost begging: he’d gone too far, allowed himself to be pushed beyond civilization, back into that brute warrior he had repudiated.

“Dai Atlas. I…am sorry.” The hands squirmed against Dai Atlas’s chassis, wanting to console through touch. Even now, bound, whipped, injured.

Dai Atlas scooped his hand under the white helm, thumb glossing gently over the flares of the audials, pulling Wing into a sudden, abrupt, kiss. It was inconceivable, even to himself, this spontaneity, this…everything, but his mouth pressed down upon Wing’s, and the mouthplates parted, sweetsour with the spill of energon, and the glossa darting shyly against his. Wing’s body was rigid to the point of trembling, torn between the pain and the shock of it.

“Wing,” Dai Atlas murmured, sound vibrating between them, “You have to stop.” He ran a hand down the jet’s side, fingers skittering over the green bindings on the wings. “This…isn’t you. This isn’t what you deserve.”

“It is me,” Wing said. “I have to do what I believe is right.” He shivered at the touch, as Dai Atlas’s fingers tweaked the bindings of his wings. “And I can endure what I have deserved.”

“I know you can endure,” Dai Atlas sighed. That was the problem. Wing could endure pain, punishment. His very experiences in Altihex, in its destruction, had created some…gap, some lacuna in himself where he could suffer and somehow keep whole. And he knew, intimately, from the inside, how pain could wear one down, break down to build anew.

Wing had been built anew after being pulled from the ruins of Altihex. And it had made him gentle and kind, but at the same time hard, almost to the point of recklessness. Pain, he could endure. Suffering, he could survive. But he had to learn. There had to be some way to convince him.

“Let’s see how much,” Dai Atlas said, abruptly, pushing off the white frame. He had had Wing, himself, ages ago, and still remembered this same wanton writhing. And the valve, tight and slick, almost too small for his spike. His interface systems cycled on at the memory, at the way Wing’s thighs rubbed together that was agonizingly familiar. “Move to the dais.”

Wing froze, optics almost hurt, before he rolled—clumsily with his bound hands and wings—and began a strange half-crawl to the dais. Dai Atlas watched the roll of the hips, the way the skirting panels shifted as the jet moved, trying to compensate for the dead weight of the bound wings. Wing managed the steps, turn, pushing slowly to stand.

“Kneel,” Dai Atlas barked, grabbing his resolve with the electrowhip. “Hands atop your helm.”

Wing complied, his face the mask of obedience.

Dai Atlas let his gaze rake down the frame, the converging planes of the chassis, the silver-chamfered hips, the long thighs and their sweep into the lower legs, the redflash of the stabilizers pushed flat under the greave plates. He approached, optics fixated on those thighs, the dark cut of shadow between them, as he brought the electrowhip down over them.

Wing jolted, strangling a cry, hips bucking to one side. Dai Atlas didn’t hesitate, bringing another lash down over the thighs, one of the strands curling under into the gap. And again. And again, and another until Wing arched up, falling backwards onto his wings, sobbing in pain. “You will learn!” Dai Atlas brought the whip down one more time, blue sparks flying from contact with the silver metal.

He shoved Wing’s knees aside, dropping down between them. The dark jut of Wing’s interface hatch had a deep scratch from the electrowhip, and above it, the chassis shuddered, vents of hot air gusting tremblingly over the frame. His spike leapt in its housing as Wing whimpered, anticipating pain. His free hand moved forward, thumb rubbing the damaged panel, feeling the heat of Wing’s own aroused systems through the metal.

Dai Atlas stood, abruptly. There was only one way. An old, ancient way, one that hadn’t been used in ages. Since coming here. But Wing…had to learn. He hauled at the bound wrists, driving one of his swords into the ground, the binding rope looped over it, pinning the jet’s arms over his head. “You will learn,” he said, coldly, turning to the wall’s cabinet. It took a moment to find, the metal tarnished from disuse, but when he flicked the switch, it hummed on with silky obedience.

Dai Atlas bent, snapping open the interface hatch, giving a dark snort as the spike eagerly released itself, thick and glossy with lubricant. This, he thought, was the problem. Wing’s crossing over, pain and pleasure indistinguishable.

Wing’s gold optics fixed on the tarnish-dark object, half-recognizing it. “What are you doing?” he whispered.

“What needs to be done, Wing.” Pleasure…can be made pain. More than that, Wing needed to be drained, refilled. Started anew. He pressed the device down, over Wing’s needy spike, seating it with a half-twist against the spike’s baseplate. Wing gave a sharp, choking sound as the oscillator adjusted, matching nodes to his, a toothed chuck biting into his spike’s base, and ran a quick test of charge up his spike.

“Th-this isn’t necessary,” Wing said, ventilation coming in quick pants, as if afraid to move.

“Nothing else,” Dai Atlas said, severely, “has worked, Wing. We have tried.” His thumb tapped the cycle button. He stood up, stepping away as the device cycled on, running low, sensuous buzzes of charge up and down the trapped spike. Wing writhed, hands clutching helplessly above his head.

“Please,” Wing whispered, gold optics wide, mouthplates twitching as the oscillation device began working charge up his spike.

Dai Atlas shook his head. No. Wing had to learn.

The jet cried out, as the first overload hit, the device tripping charge over his net. His wings tried to flare in their bindings, blue haze of excess current dancing over them, his hips jerking as the overload thrust transfluid up his spike channel.

Wing sagged back onto the floor, twisting his bound wrists. He squirmed, rubbing his sore wings against the cool floor, trying to dissipate the charge trapped in the seams. “OH!” He cried out, back arching, as the device cycled on again, rippling current over his spike, raising charge over the nodes. His legs squirmed, heels ringing against the stone floor, hips jerking in a tiny, feeble rhythm. Wing didn’t beg, not this time. He writhed, whimpering wordlessly, as another overload built over his spike, the device’s rhythm methodical, inexorable.

Wing cried out again, shuddering, another overload wracking his system. Dai Atlas bent down, Wing shivering in aftershocks. The gold optics pled with him. He shook his head, resetting the device to start again. A whine slipped from the jet’s vocalizer, longing and pitiful.

Dai Atlas stepped back, face grim and set, watching Wing, as the forcible overloads took him, again and again, the beautiful white frame quivering, arching, twisting, bliss indistinguishable from pain. Wing’s ventilations were hoarse, harsh gasps, and when his optics flickered alight they were blind with ecstasy. Dai Atlas wished he were immune to the wild eroticism of the spectacle. It was, he told himself, necessary. It was also, however, maddeningly arousing. His own spike leapt with each wild cry from the smaller jet, and he seemed unable to tear his optics away from the squirming hips, the elegant thighs.

Wing shuddered, wracked, on the dais as the machine shut off again. Enough, Dai Atlas thought. He strode over, straddling the smaller jet. “Do not,” he said, his voice rough with lust, as he reached to “endanger us again, Wing.”

“No,” Wing whimpered. “It was never my intent.” He winced as Dai Atlas twisted the oscillator, prying it from his baseplate.

“I know,” Dai Atlas murmured. He leaned forward, the oscillator still in one hand, letting his mouth brush against Wing’s hot lip plates. “I know.”

The mouth parted beneath his kiss, the glossa shy, seeking, wanting assurance. Dai Atlas sighed into the kiss, lowering himself down onto the smaller jet. He reached with one hand to draw one of his small blades, slicing through the bindings on the wings, which spread, timidly, tremblingly on the ground. Dai Atlas’s hands stroked down the panels, dissipating the built charge, feeling Wing shudder and squirm underneath him.

Dai Atlas could feel his spike rage inside his hatch, feeling the abused heat of Wing’s sorely-treated spike against him. His hand slid down between their bodies, rubbing the quivering, retracting spike, and beneath that, the valve, which had become uncovered in the ordeal, thin lubricant leaking from the rim.

A shudder ran through Dai Atlas’s large frame. He gave up any semblance of control, of himself, of the ordeal, of anything. Of its own accord his hand found his interface hatch, snapping it open with a brutish violence, his spike too eager, burning with lust.

He sank against Wing, spike seating itself in the valve, a swift sheathing gesture that didn’t stop until the spike jammed against the top of the valve, his larger spike spreading the set calipers. Wing gasped, mouth stretching into an O as Dai Atlas pushed in, optics flaring. Wing’s own spike retracted fully into its housing, one last silver bead of transfluid trembling on the tip.

“Wing,” Dai Atlas began, before the words failed him utterly, sound grinding down into a longing groan, the valve quivering down against his spike. He fastened his mouth on one of Wing’s bound wrists, his own blade cold and straight against his cheek as he began surging into the smaller jet. Wing keened, curling into the movement, one ankle hooking around the larger hip, white on blue, opening in surrender. Dai Atlas’s ventilation came in hard, hot pants, gusting down their joined bodies, his spike demanding, conquering the body yielding beneath.

Dai Atlas felt the overload build up in him like a storm, pressure building, building, rising to some blinding, swirling insistence before breaking over him, a wild frenzy of current and sound and light. His cheek struck the hilt of the sword as he arced up, his vocalizer giving a rumbling, feral roar, as his hips thrust forward, jamming against Wing’s body, his spike leaping in the valve.

He collapsed on the smaller white frame, knee curling against Wing’s side, Wing’s thigh riding over his hip. He curled over Wing’s frame, the two of them shuddering, lost, together, for a long moment.

Dai Atlas lifted his head, reaching up with one hand to tug the leadline. The rope binding Wing’s wrists slipped slack, freeing Wing, before stroking tenderly down the body, the splayed wings. He curled his spine, planting a hesitant kiss on Wing’s crest. “Please, Wing,” he whispered, entreaty raw and plain in his voice. “Please. No more disobedience.” I can’t take any more.  
“  
Yes,” Wing answered, tipping his chin, mouth gentle on Dai Atlas’s chin. “I will do my best.” They both heard the doubt in his voice, the awareness that his notion of ‘right’ might very well conflict again, his struggle not to be forsworn.

Both were too exhausted to argue, demand. Dai Atlas kissed the crest again, before, reluctantly, pushing himself off the white frame. He held the golden gaze with his own red optics, a swirl like flame between them. “I ask no more than that.”


End file.
